My Brother’s Keeper
by Novemberrain221
Summary: Am I my brother’s keeper? As Mycroft searches desperately for a kidnapped Sherloci memories of their past come to haunt him.
1. Chapter 1: Lost and Found

"Ahoy! I see land matey!" 5-year-old Sherlock called. He wore a pirate hat with a large plume billowing out of it that was a bit too large for him so that he had to keep pushing it up in order to see. He carried a little wooden sword with him.

"Ahhh, but you forgot, this land belongs to Blackbeard!" 13-year-old Mycroft cried as he leaped up from behind the couch. He was sporting an eye patch, pirate hat, and a wooden sword as well.

"Defend yourself you scallywag!" Sherlock shouted as he swung his sword. Mycroft parried the blow and swung in return. He and his brother dueled playfully for a while before Mycroft succeeded in knocking Sherlock gently back onto the fluffy pillows.

"You've lost, brother mine. Now you will have to face the terrible wrath of…THE TICKLE MONSTER!" He began to tickle the curly-haired boy, who laughed and shrieked with delight.

"BOYS!" Mrs. Holmes called sternly and both boys stopped immediately. "What have I told you about roughhousing in the house? Just look at my nice clean parlor! The ladies of the math society will be here shortly. Now I want you two to straighten this room up immediately and then go outside to play, understood?" she said as she placed her hands on her hips and looked at her two sons severely.

"Yes mummy," they both replied as they sullenly started to dismantle the fort Sherlock had built and straightened the parlor. Sherlock stole a glance at his older brother, who made a funny face at him. Sherlock couldn't help but giggle…

Mycroft jerked his head up. How long had he been sleeping? He rubbed his face groggily and checked his watch. 5 'o' clock it read. He'd been at the office none stop for the last two days with no answers. Two days; that's when this whole nightmare began. John had woken up to an empty flat. Upon going to Sherlock's room to see if maybe the detective was still asleep he found a note:

Oh Dear Me. Seems our detective has 

Gotten himself into a bit of a scrape….

Alarmed, John phoned Lestrade immediately and the search had begun for the missing detective. Since then they had combed the city for Sherlock, under Mycroft's watchful eye and still not the slightest clue had come up. Who knows where Sherlock's captors had taken him. He suspected Moriarty judging by the blatant tone in the note. He could almost hear the mastermind squawking the words in his ear.

He was about to pour himself another brandy and go through more security footage when suddenly Anthea burst into his office. "Sir, its Lestrade," she said as she handed him the phone.

"We've found him. Condemned building on Watermain street. We're making sure it's not a trap before we enter," Lestrade said.

"I'll be right there," Mycroft said before he hung up. "Anthea! Get my car ready immediately."

Within minutes Mycroft was in his car and heading to the address Lestrade gave him. Soon he arrived at the scene. Police were everywhere. As he got out he spotted Lestrade and walked over to him.

"Building checks out sir. We're going in to get him," Lestrade reported.

"I'm coming with you," Mycroft said firmly, and Lestrade nodded.

The building was dank and cold. Anyone could see why it was condemned. As they traveled through what must have been the remains of a lobby of some sort they heard a soft moan come from one of the rooms in the back.

"Sherlock?!" Mycroft called as he picked his way through the debris and broken boards to the back room. He couldn't help but gasp when he saw the state of his little brother.

Sherlock was strung between four ropes, elevated off the ground and stretched out spread eagle like a rag doll. His face was bruised and bloodied. Mycroft was surprised to find that his captors had left his clothes on, coat included. But the front of his white dress shirt was torn and bloodied. Mycroft concluded that someone had whipped Sherlock viciously.

"Good lord Sherlock," Lestrade gasped as he raced to the detective. He began cutting away the ropes. Mycroft ran to his brother, catching him as Lestrade freed him and eased him to the floor in his lap.

"Sherlock? Sherlock are you with me," Mycroft urged gently as he patted his brother's bloodied face.

Sherlock groaned as he managed to open his eyes half-way. "M-Myc?" he rasped in a weak voice.

" It's alright Sherlock. We're here now. It's alright." He looked up at Lestrade. "Get medical help in here now." Lestrade nodded and started to make his way to the door.

"W-Wait! Stop! I-It's a tr-trap!" Sherlock cried out weakly. Lestrade stopped and turned and just in time. Suddenly there was a deafening boom and the whole building shook violently. Dust and debris started to rain down. Lestrade ran over to the two Holmes brother, trying to avoid the falling objects. Mycroft shielded his brother as broken boards, bricks, and huge chunks of plaster rained down, thoroughly burying the lowest level of the building and blocking off all the doors, trapping the trio.

"No!" Lestrade cried as he ran to where the door once was. He tuned in on his walkie talkie. "This is Detective Inspector Lestrade. We're alright. Get a crew on digging us out immediately. Sherlock's hurt pretty badly."

As Lestrade gave directions over the radio, Mycroft tried to catalog his brother's injuries. The whip wounds looked very infected. He also noted that his right shoulder had been dislocated, but seemed to have been set albeit it was swelling terribly. What was most concerning was Sherlock's labored and shallow breathing. Little did he know Sherlock had been watching him.

"B-broke my ribs," he rasped.

"Here, let me prop you up a bit and that should help your breathing." He started to help Sherlock sit up a bit when suddenly the detective jerked and cried out in agony.

Mycroft crept up the stairs to his brother's room. Sherlock had been violently ill with the flu for the last week. The doctor had assured that he would recover but mummy was still very worried. The disease had wreaked havoc on the 6-year-old's body, leaving him resembling something like a thin, fragile ghost. Mycroft tapped on the door before entering. Sherlock lay feverishly in the bed. Sweat plastered his curls against his forehead

"M-Myc?" he whimpered weakly. Mycroft walked over to him.

"It's alright Sherlock. I'm here," he said as he sat on the edge of his brother's bed.

"M-my tummy hurts," he whimpered.

"I know."

"Stay with me please Myc," Sherlock whimpered as he grabbed his older brother's hand. Mycroft could feel the heat radiating off his brother's skin. He squeezed it comfortingly.

"I will. I promise."

There was blood; lots of blood. The deep stab wound in Sherlock's abdomen seemed to be gushing with no end in sight. The pain seemed to register with the detective now and he was writhing in pain.

"Lestrade! Tell them to hurry!" Mycroft called before trying to soothe his panicked brother.

"M-Myc!" Sherlock gasped. His usually stoic and strong disposition had completely crumbled and now his eyes were blown wide with panic and agony was etched into his face.

"It's alright Sherlock. Lestrade's going to get us out I promise." He turned away from his brother's writhing form for a moment to the detective inspector desperately trying to pull away debris while simultaneously shouting at the police officers through his radio. "Lestrade, any luck?"

Lestrade sighed as he quit his efforts and returned to Mycroft's side. "They are working now to get us out. Could be an hour or so."

Sherlock let out a weak groan at the news.

"He's going to bleed out if we don't do something. Quick, see if they can at least get some supplies through to us," Mycroft ordered as he looked around for something to help staunch the blood gushing from his little brother's body. As Lestrade got up and returned to the blocked exit, Mycroft spotted Sherlock's scarf crumpled up on the floor near where they had found him. Reaching over, he grasped the soft material and balled it up in his hand before he pushed against Sherlock's wound.

"M-Mycroft no!" Sherlock gasped

"Mum? Mum I've got a train to catch! I've got to go!" 21-year-old Mycroft called.

"Say goodbye to you're bother first!" Mummy called from downstairs.

Mycroft walked down the hall with his suitcase in hand and his coat and scarf on. He really didn't have time for this. He had to get back to his studies. He found Sherlock in his room sitting on his bed and staring forlornly out the window.

"Sherlock? What's wrong?"

"Nothing," the teenager sighed.

"Come now, Sherlock. You've tried to hide things from me before and you know it doesn't work. Come now I've got a train to catch," Mycroft coaxed.

Sherlock, who had been facing Mycroft with his back turned to him now turned around and Mycroft could see the black eye his brother now sported. The dark ugly bruising stood out starkly on his brother's pale skin. There were a few tears in his brother's eyes.

"Good Lord Sherlock what happened?" Mycroft gasped as he set down his suitcase, his train was suddenly forgotten. He sat by his brother's side on the bed as Sherlock wiped the tears away with the back of his hand.

"Don't tell mum. Couple guys in my class beat me. Told him I knew he was cheating on his girlfriend."

"Oh Sherlock…" Mycroft sighed.

"Didn't mean to. I just observed."

"I know." Mycroft knew that now it was known Sherlock carried the same brain capacity and astute observation skills as many Holmes, including himself, did life would be difficult and lonely.

"What's wrong with me Myc? Why can't I make friends?" Sherlock sniffed. Mycroft looked into the bloodied and bruised face of his younger brother.

"Nothing's wrong with you Sherlock. You can't make friends because you 're better than them yeah? You're smarter than anyone you're age. Probably smarter than people who are older than you. It's a gift. It makes you special. So forget the silly foolishness of people your age ok? You're better than all of them."

Sherlock looked at his brother. The wheels in his mind were already starting to turn as it stored this bit of advice.

"Wish you didn't have to go," Sherlock sighed.

"I know. But I have to go back to Uni. But here. Look after this for me," Mycroft said as he took off his navy scar and wrapped it around his brother's neck. "Looks better on you anyways."

Sherlock looked at the scarf and grinned before he hugged his brother.

"My-myc y-your scarf….." Sherlock moaned as he thrashed weakly in his brother's arms. His limbs were getting heavy from the blood loss. It was getting harder to breathe.

"Shhhhhh, I know Sherlock. I'll get you another. We've got to stop this bleeding," Mycroft reassured as he pressed harder on the cloth despite Sherlock's groans of agony. Lestrade hurried over.

"They're almost through. There's a support beam that's giving them some trouble. They managed to get us some water bottles through. He needs to drink a little to stave off the shock."

"We're already past the staving part," Mycroft replied as he noted the detective's clammy and pale skin. "But staying hydrated is good."

Lestrade cracked open a bottle and knelt beside the prone detective. Mycroft propped him up in his arms and Lestrade tipped the bottle to his lips. "Come on mate. You've got to drink a little yeah?" Sherlock groaned before taking a few tentative sips

Once the Sherlock was done Lestrade went back to help direct the emergency services outside. Sherlock's breathing was getting worse. His breath rattled in his throat. Mycroft didn't know if it was from the presumably punctured lung or the severe blood loss. Either way, he could see his brother slipping away before his eyes. Sherlock looked dead save for the rapid and shallow rise and fall of his chest as he put every bit of effort he could into breathing. His eyes were closed and his skin a deathly pale.

"Sherlock? Sherlock please. I need you to hold on. Hold on ok? Were getting help. Please Sherlock. Don't give up, "Mycroft begged quietly.

Sherlock's eyes fluttered open just barely. "I-I'm s-sorry….." he rasped in a barely audible voice.

"For what?"

"F-for….e-e.-everyth-ing…."

Mycroft rubbed his eyes as he looked over at the white hospital bed. Sherlock's 22-year-old body was impossibly thin. He'd never seen Sherlock so thin and sickly. The numerous IVs running through his brother's arms reminded him that they almost didn't make it this time. Five times. Five times in the last month Sherlock had overdosed. This was the most in a single period. This last time had almost killed him. It had been a rough two days watching doctors try to coax Sherlock's heart to keep beating despite his best efforts. His heroin addiction was officially out of control. In his teenage years, it had been the worrisome habit of a rebellious teenager going through a phase. In his twenties, it was an addiction that was certainly going to spell death for the young man. Something had to be done. There was a soft groan from the bed as Sherlock awoke.

"Ugh…..where am I?"

"Hospital. Again. When are you going to learn Sherlock," Mycroft scolded.

"Learn what, Brother Dear?" Sherlock replied. Even in his weak state, he still managed about four layers of sarcasm.

"That what you are doing is going to kill you! It's a waste of your talents and your skills!"

"Oh save it. You don't care. You're the one who made me this way?!"

"Sherlock, what are you talking about?"

"You're better than everyone, Sherlock. Forget everyone else because you're better than everyone. Well, you know where that got me? Alone!"

"What does that have to do with your drug problem?

"Have to feel something. I just feel numb Mycroft. I feel numb and it's all your fault."

"I didn't tell you to have a drug problem."

"And yet here we are based on advice you gave," Sherlock retorted before turning his back on Mycroft.

"Oh, Sherlock, it's ok. I promise all that's in the past now. Sherlock, I need you to be ok. I need you to hang on. Sherlock, you need to hang on." Mycroft knew things were getting serious if Sherlock started apologizing. Sherlock was dying. "Sherlock…..are you with me?"

"I-I'm…...s-sorry….." Sherlock's eyes drifted shut and his whole body went slack.

"Sherlock!" Mycroft didn't notice the loud crash as the rescue team finally broke through the debris and made a whole wide enough to get a stretcher through. He hardly noticed as paramedics eased Sherlock's body out of his arms so that they could work to stabilize him. And he was nearly impervious to Lestrade's arm that wrapped comfortingly around him and lead him to the ambulance behind the stretcher carrying his brother. He was numb. Once the prone detective and dazed politician were tucked away in the van, the doors closed and the ambulance went screaming off towards the nearest hospital.

"Blood pressure at dangerous levels. Pulse is rapid and weak. Keep AED standing by," one of the paramedics ordered as the cut away Sherlock's shirt so that they could assess his wound. Another one fixed an oxygen mask to Sherlock's face and yet another attached electrodes to his chest and immediately began to map out his weak heartbeat via a machine. Almost immediately the machine started to scream as the detective's vitals plummeted to a dangerous low. Mycroft grabbed his hand.

"Sherlock? Sherlock, please. Please, I'm so sorry. I'm so sorry Sherlock."

Sherlock, escorted by one of Mycroft's men entered the large and lofty office. Mycroft was sitting at his desk. He was determined to be calm as he started his brother, clothed in baggy jeans and a ratty sweatshirt, down across the desk.

"So, what do you want this time, Brother Dear? It clearly is important because you had to send one of your goons to fetch me," Sherlock scoffed as he crossed his arms and put his feet up on the desk.

"Sherlock, in approximately one miunte a van is going to pull up. My "goon" is going to take you to it, and you're going to be taken to maximum security rehab."

"WHAT!?" Sherlock almost screamed as he jumped up, knocking the chair he was sitting in over.

"Sherlock I care about you too much to let you just kill yourself like this. You're going to rehab whether you like it or not."

"No! I'm not going and you can't make me!" Despite his wild thrashing, the man waiting grabbed Sherlock and pinned his arms behind his back. "I hate you! This is all your fault!"

Mycroft exploded at that point. For months he'd been cleaning up his brother's mess and the entire time Sherlock had done nothing but cause more trouble and blame him, and now he couldn't take it anymore.

"SHUT UP! I've had enough Sherlock. You've ruined everything. You've always ruined everything. You're a screwup, Sherlock!"

The look of pain in Sherlock's startled face was unlike anything Mycroft had ever seen. He'd sat beside Sherlock through countless sprained ankles, scrapes, cuts, and withdrawals. None of those compared to what he witnessed now. Mycroft's words destroyed any ounce of fight Sherlock had left as he left himself to be dragged away to rehab.

Mycroft begged and pleaded for Sherlock to keep fighting until they reached the hospital; until they wheeled Sherlock away to the OR just as he flatlined; as he found himself sitting in the waiting room an hour later with still no word on his little brother.


	2. Chapter2: Forgiven

Sherlock slowly felt his limbs start to come back to life. Everything throbbed, especially in a concentrated area around his abdomen. His head hurt, but it was nothing compared to the blinding migraine that formed the second he opened his eyes and was blinded by the overhead light. He must have made a noise out loud because suddenly the light went away and he could open his eyes. He felt a hand grab his hand and looking over, he saw his brother sitting in the chair beside his bed. Mycroft gave him a small smile.

"Overdose?"

"Not this time. Moriarty got to you this time."

"Right," Sherlock said with a tired sigh.

"You scared me."

"I'm sorry. "

"No need for apologies. All is forgiven." Sherlock looked at his brother and saw the earnestness in his brother's eyes.

"All is forgiven, Myc." Mycroft grinned.

"John is going to kill you. He's on his way now."

"Well, it wouldn't be the first time."

"No, and I daresay it won't be the last."

"Now get some sleep. You still need to recover," Mycroft scolded gently as he tucked Sherlock's blanket around him before resuming holding his hand.

"Yes, Brother Dear," Sherlock murmured before drifting off to sleep.


End file.
